


transcription

by CHEETOBREATH



Category: Skyrim, The Elder Scrolls - Fandom, The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: (The Author Regrets Everything), Angst, CHIM - Freeform, Canon Divergence, Daedric Princes, Dovahkiin is of Khajiiti breed and a Tojay, Hurt, I went exactly there, I'm really unsure if it will ever be finished, Lore - Freeform, Nirn you are like a dream on drugs, Other, Remorse, Shenanigans, Slow Updates, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Wheel, Unrequited Love, also lots of Thalmor, and brought myself into exactly that place, and it breaks him in more ways than he imagined possible, as in a ton of theory and ideas, btw I have no idea how tags work, but I enjoy the subtleness of their dynamic, but Miraak ends up falling really hard, incoherrent, might take a turn for the worse, probably really little comfort, scrolls, snippets of something yet unfinished, the slowest of slow burns if there is even any, this was a mistake, time jumps, will add tags as story progresses, will probably spiral into war tales
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2018-11-18 16:25:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11294382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CHEETOBREATH/pseuds/CHEETOBREATH
Summary: When she meets him again, she knows.Even though he’s dreaming; even though he wishes – he can’t reach out. He won’t.---a collective of thoughts about the Dragonborn DLC and its possible meanings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A song that inspired this greatly; Bleach by anatu.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXjvTce7lIE
> 
> I apologize for my own and the messiness of this concept.  
> It kinda caught me off guard to be honest haha.

 

 

 

_I believe I will transcript my own desires onto him. It goes the same way; it feels the same. I can inspire myself this way – for he feels the same I felt._  
_The longing for something, not only one specific thing but a whole lot of somethings – it must have a meaning. I believe that he’d do the same I did._  
_She’s always in front of him; always near, always close, always just an inch from his touch._  
_But he does not reach out; he could be mourning, he could be dying, but he will not reach out._  
_This is too fragile to break. It is too precious to him to risk. Too important to destroy it by something pathetic as pride, his pride. He will not accept any circumstance that could increase the space between them._  
_Those few inches are already enough._

_Even though he’s dreaming; even though he wishes – he can’t reach out. He won’t._

 

 

\---

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

The process itself, it seems, she shakes off as a simple act of courage, like many things she does.

She does not acknowledge the pain it brings, the process she bears to witness her wish come true – can he speak, and can he truly speak in her tongue? – and it feels almost as if she were still caught in deep slumber, hopeless and content in this quiet despair.

She does, however, regard the risks, quite carefully so. It leads to a long list of preparations, longer nights of discussion and writing paragraphs of pros and cons, construction of plans that are disregarded and picked up again. Her preparation, intermingled with the knot points in time that mark their meetings, forms an almost fluid fabric of fate that dances around them, just out of touch.

Back then, she does not know that both of them are necessary factors to her plan, albeit in an entirely different way than she presumed – this way, she can only suspect of the fate that lies stretched out for them, and that its landscape is utterly blank like a newborn canvas.

 

 

“You are the servant of Hermaeus Mora, why would he not kill you?”

Shijia looks up. Lydia’s gaze is still fixated on the sword in front of her, sharpening the blade with slow, even strides.

“Come again?”

“Miraak. Why wouldn’t he kill you? He thinks you serve Mora, so you’re automatically like a nemesis. Another Dragonborn, with the same heritage; you’re an obvious threat. He probably hasn’t even considered that you might not share Mora’s morals.”

Shijia’s eyes widen a fraction. “Of course,” she mutters. “This could explain things.”

She looks around as if searching for something, then straightens a bit in her chair. “He was not any more hostile than need be when I first met him in Apocrypha; he even seemed reluctant. Maybe he too believes it to be a waste.”

With a sight, she lets her back sink against the wood again. “Thank you. I did not consider this. Maybe... maybe this could change something.”

They remain in companionable quiet, and only Lydia’s eyes show her silent concern.

 

 

A simple act of courage, maybe foolishness.

She cannot remember when he starts calling her adventures ‘witch-hunt,’ for she is neither in pursuit of a witch nor in feud with a clan; maybe, she sometimes thinks when she lies on her bedroll and the flames of the low fire become languid licks, small tongues, he is referring to her.

 _A witch that hunts, a sorceress._ It would fit, she thinks.

Her acts, mostly purely instinctive, render any possibility of doubt insignificant, contentment in its place. Some that she has travelled with call it a courage, a good heart and a will to fight for justice – others name it reckless, temperament, decision without regard for surrounding. She cannot, does not want to, label it as either. Is _justice_ not the law itself, and does she not break it all too often?

Her heart exists, and she knows herself well enough to know about the darker corners. _Being good can be a choice, too, as being bad might be._ The words echo in her mind, memory of past training; she ponders on the sentence for a bit, stretches out her limbs under the dark, star-filled sky.

“It was an injustice,” leaves her mouth, “to consider you entirely lost.”

Of this, she is sure.

Courage, is it her thoughtless approach to danger? Rather – the fact that she thinks, plans, considers, only to throw herself in anyway? If anything, what her mind rarely presents is a state of uncertainty, her unease and anxiety rather presenting itself through tentative, thoughtful hesitation. Something she likes about herself, because it makes her feel less like a potential regicide.

 

 

“Mora was railroading you into killing Miraak?”

She lets out a frustrated huff. “Yes.”

Neloth stares at her for a moment. “That... does sound interesting, my dear. You have not told me beforehand that you made contact with the Lord Sheogorath?”

The way he phrases it makes it sound as if he lets the sentence end on a question mark. Shijia has to stifle her groan with effort and instead regards him with calm eye. “Neloth, trust me, I am not speaking with the Daedra of madness in mind. What I am trying to say is- think about it. Just for a moment. Why would Mora set two Dovahkiin against each other when he could have had them both?”

The dark elf quirks an eyebrow and then sneers in distaste. She knows that she has him when he grows quiet for a moment, sharp eyes narrowing – lost deep in thought.

“Hm. I believe… I can see what you mean. Herma Mora is a being that lurks for knowledge; he expected ancient Skaal knowledge in exchange, did he not?”

She nods, weary. “Yes. And that is what ticks me off. Perhaps the entire point was to get to this information. Miraak and I as pawns instead of any major players.” A sight. “It could have been anyone.”  
Neloth, listening with intent and his mind already set on a second trail, sets off a flame by accident that conflagrates the fabric of his robe; with hasty annoyance he kills the fire before it can blaze up. “What do you base your assumptions on? It could not have been more but a gist. How do you know that he indeed lured both of you into complying to achieve his goal?”

 “Because that is what the Daedra do. Mortals have had their fair share of them. And every single one of them – the ones I have met until now – wants their mortal target to agree to a deal- all of them are out to play with a human. Since you mentioned Sheogorath – it was him who told me that he very much appreciates a mortal who knows they are being played with. Asides from this... I found enough evidence in the scriptures hidden in these tombs and in Apocrypha’s depths. You remember the excerpt about Vahlok? Trust me, Neloth, at least in this – the Daedra enjoy a good game far more than they enjoy idle chat, especially when it benefits them in the end. And it did for Mora.”

When Neloth turns to her this time, ash still covering his palms, he looks far more solemn. “What you are saying would require for Mora to know that you’d come.”

“He is Prince of time and knowledge. It is very possible that he can predict future events.”

The elf magister hums in thought. “Why then has Miraak committed the crime of usurping our island?”

Shijia ponders for a moment, fingers playing with the attached coin on the side of her belt. Then she voices her trail of thoughts in a much more hesitant fashion.

“He has been in Apocrypha for millennia, over four thousand years if my calculation is correct. That is an awfully long time to be trapped in a Daedric realm, especially bodily; no matter if time flows different there. Let us suppose- Miraak cannot trust Mora on the information he finds in his library, at least not after Mora unveils his plans, tells him that he wants to keep him there- Apocrypha is Mora’s realm and as such... a part of Mora himself, even more than physical manifestation.”

She runs her hands through her hair, exasperated. The pieces do fit together, in a weird way, and still there are parts missing. It feels almost like something is tickling the sides of her mind, waiting for her to finally catch on and piece together more.

“Not to mention that Miraak must have been desperate. Maybe he knew that he needed to leave. Either because Mora found out about his plotting, desire to become free again, or because he knew that he would go mad if he stayed much longer, or both. Even a Dragonborn cannot remain unfazed against the influences of Oblivion.”

Shijia searches Neloths eyes and holds them.

“He was searching for ways to escape. It would have been easy for Mora to manipulate any information in the library, and Miraak must have known. It was all the more endearing for Mora, to see his dear champion try so hard to prove himself, until he understood that Miraak meant it... something must have happened. Maybe- maybe Miraak discovered something else, something that endangered Mora in some way or another, however small it would have been.” An image flickers through her head, eerily familiar in the sound it carries without voice. For a moment, she remembers the dreaming state. Everything clicks into place, surrounding suddenly sharp in focus, even though the very confines of the things around her seem to shudder slowly, time coming to a crystal-clear-cut halt.

_Ohh._

She centers herself. Time moves again, falling out of the cutting bright edges.

“There might be… something.”

 

 

Pain, as becomes clear, she brings not only to herself.

“He was searching for ways of escape. He would not have… I believe that he would not have done that if he had been there willingly.”

The woman’s eyes burn into her skull, ancient hurt in her sharp gaze. She has lost a lover and a son to the pillars, and she will not let herself be reasoned with, not even by the dragonborn.

“He can go scratch Netch eyes off the bar. He can become a pile of dust for all I care.”

Her shoulders sink as she watches the hunched figure disappear into the crowd, leaving a feeling of lingering regret in her chest. She was not fast enough to save some of them, and the responsibility hits her full-force, compressing her lungs into a tight ball of hurting vessels. Shijia swallows slowly, forces herself to relax the muscles in her chest.

 

 

“Even if it was not my fault to arrive late to the island, their death remains my responsibility. If I had not been, they might have survived. If it is a dragonborn that prompts this man to commit murder, then I have to take responsibility for being one.”

Neloth’s eyebrows are drawn together as he lets out a disgusted huff.

“If you had not been, more of them would be dead. I understand your savior complex and your inability to focus on anything if it has not proven your ability to help, but listen closely, magician; you do not get to decide if your existence is important enough to justify someone blaming you when you did not have direct influence on the happenings of this island. You might be existent, but just as much is their grief existent, and it has little to do with your presence here. Many would have died if you had not arrived here, and more will die regardless of your presence here. Unless you take direct part in someone’s departure on this island, I wish you not to speak in this manner about yourself in my presence.”

 

 

\---

 

 

Again, the confrontation with Apocrypha’s water petrifies her limbs.

Initially her visit to the realm was to become an expedition into the library itself, without further plans of finding the man with the mask; but regardless of her intention, the black book must have read deeper than allowed.

It leads to her confinement on an island close to the mainland, separated only by a small patch of oily fluid; the movement beneath makes her stomach quench. It takes her willpower and minutes of steady breath to force herself to cross the clearing, _Feim Zii Gron_ on her lips. In ethereal form, the tentacles slip through her, just as she floats over the surface.

Mora appears to have need to prove a point, for more appendages than usual follow her.

 

By accident, she stumbles over the older Dovahkiin.

She finds herself in an open study room, hours after her entrance, more hospitable than most of the other places; if only slightly. Papyrus adorns some of the walls, delicate studies drawn onto them.

What surprises her is that he seems not surprised in the slightest.

“How unexpected.”

The shivers in the air, right there in the rumbling quality of his voice, thunder-like, makes her reconsider if he can speak her language – if Mora translates them, or if she truly listens to his words. When he speaks, it is laced with an accent she cannot pin-point down.

“Dragonborn. With what do I deserve the honor of your visit?” The words are laced with sharp sarcasm, dislike apparent in them clear as day. _Not as easy as thought. Conviction. Arguments._ He does not even turn around to face her.

“I was hoping to strike a truce.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an update.  
> it has been a while, and albeit losing some process, at least a little was preserved;   
> further updates might come slow, but i will try to steady them a bit.
> 
> thank you for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an interlude.

 

 

_Slen...Tiid...Vo..._

When the voice fades, he is ripped out of the darkness, tumbling into blinding light, screaming until his throat feels as if someone cut it with a heated blade. He tastes iron on his tongue.

Fragments of the words scatter around him, still woven into the fabric of time; they have not yet left this plane, not entirely, and he can still hear the faint echo of back-and-forth swaying power around him.

His first intake of air is not exactly how folklore and epics would depict an ancient being taking their first breath in centuries.

Instead it is staggered, heavy, a heaving gasp – he feels as if someone is smothering him, walls from all sides, an unrelenting force pressing down on his lungs. Is he upright? hunched? crouching? He cannot tell. Everything is entirely too much; the noise around him, the roaring silence and the drums in his ears, the _pain_ ripping through his body–

He takes a deep breath and anguish roars through his limbs. This time, the intake is not silent, but filled with a low howling, his mouth speaking a tongue forged centuries ago. He himself cannot decipher what he’s saying, and maybe he doesn’t want to know – the memories comes hesitantly, containing themselves – but someone else is listening, intently, keenly, trying to make sense of him.

 “I am glad to see you awake. Drem yol lok, Dovahkriid. I feared for a moment to have lost you.”

Something stirs inside of him. Dovahzul.

“Qahnaarin,” he groans out between waves of distress, “feyn do Alduin.”

There is a moment of silence.

“Keep still, if you can. Your body must recover. It has been chiliads since you’ve been on Nirn.”

There is movement beyond his field of vision. Until yet he has not even been able to see; everything is a blurred, blue tinted mess. A cool, but kind hand gently strokes something off his face and suddenly breathing is easier.

It’s still fuzzy, but now he begins to see vague shapes. _Too bright_. He closes his eyes, without thinking, and tries to shield his face with his hands; on first attempt, he has to realise that his bones still hurt. He flinches.

Then, a second time, he tries, and manages to lift his palm to his forehead.

“Rinik...pogaas...kun...”

Had he been in a clearer state of mind, he would have realised the irony of his words.

“So you still speak Dovahzul. I expected you to speak...” A short pause. “It does not matter at this moment. Now, rest. It is peaceful here; you are safe.” The voice is angelic in its calmness.

The brightness fades to muted gray, a feeling of familiar warmth enveloping him before the barely contained consciousness slips from his fingertips.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drem yol lok, Dovahkriid - Greetings, Dragonslayer  
> Qahnaarin, feyn do Alduin - Vanquisher, Bane of Alduin  
> Rinik pogaas kun - basically 'the light is so very bright' (very/exceedingly, much/great in measure or degree, light)


End file.
